Yellow Card
by Herr Fritz
Summary: Sequal to "The Penalty". John finds a "Yellow Card" warning in Sherlock's texts, possibly explaining why the detective hurt him. It's then up to the doctor to try and figure out the truth between what Sherlock is telling him, and what Moriarty told him.


**Reading this story is completely optional for those who have read**__**The Penalty****, a story I currently wrote. This addition implies a possible resolution between John and Sherlock, for the many who requested such an ending. If, you are like other readers, and **_**don't **_**desire a somewhat 'sunshine and rainbows' ending, you may freely skip this. Either way, **_**lykke til**_**!**

**This story has shifted to John's point of view.**

**/-/**

I'm lying in bed, trying my best not to scream.

I'm trying to pretend like I haven't woken up, like I haven't been forced out of my dreams from the pain coursing through my veins like fire. Because the moment I awoke, I could feel _him _in the room.

_Sherlock_. I can't even stand to say his name any more; it brings the taste of bile and blood back in my mouth. It brings me back to the pool, to Moriarty and his inane ranting, all the disturbing truths he brought me to realize.

For such an evil man, I still feel obligated to be thankful to him. He told me the truth about Sher- _that man._ It's true that he beat my face, scarred up my body, but I hold him no hard feelings. I'm a doctor, I know my body will recover.

My mind on the other hand, will take far longer.

I've been lying in this bed, pretending to be asleep for hours. That man sitting next to me knows I'm awake; for all my hate of him, I'll still recognize that nothing slips past him. I just don't know why he doesn't force me out of my fake slumber. Maybe it's because he's a coward: one of the many labels Moriarty woke me to during that time at the pool.

_That man_ is a coward. A liar, a manipulator, a fool, a psychopath, a killer, an emotionless sinner! He's an immoral, wicked, sick, twisted man. But most of all, he's a coward. He can't stand to face me now, to have me confront him and all the evils he's done to me. This man, the one who dared to call me a colleague and friend, manipulated me to do his 'mundane' work for him! He made me believe I meant something to him; that he valued my amazement in his abilities, just so that I would do 'domestic jobs' for him!

Donovan was right. Anderson was right. But most of all, Moriarty was right. _Stay away from Sherlock_. That's what they told me.

I should have listened.

Look where ignoring them has me now: in a hospital, recovering from critical injuries, with the man who hates me above all else (and who I hate for his lies) sitting beside me… _stroking my hand?_

"How long will you pretend to sleep, John?" That man speaks smoothly, doing well in masking his voice from any disdain he has at touching me. I suppose to pretend past now would be pointless. I slowly open my eyes.

"About time." He sits back in satisfaction. "I was about to think you were being _dull_ agai-"

He breaks off what he was saying, anger crossing his face immediately. "No, that's not what I meant to say."

My eyes harden at him and I look to the far wall, away from him. Does he think he'll win me over with such poor acting? He did better off pretending to care about me.

"Listen, John." He's giving it another try. For God's sake, he should just go and talk to someone he enjoys being with more…like Anderson! "I know you think I hate you, and for that, you probably hate me. But you need to stop acting so childish."

Well, that's _one _way to try and win me over.

"I've collected some books that relate to Stockholm's syndrome, which is similar to the delusion you're under now." He continues on, pretending that I'm listening to him. "I'm expecting you to read them, then return to regular counseling sessions. You'll find someone better than that bird who tried to talk you through your leg, of course, but then…"

He stops. For no reason whatsoever, he stops. Has he finally realized it's not worth it? That I just want to talk to Sarah about getting a good recommendation for a doctor's job far away from Greater London as possible?

No, of course not. He just got a text. From the corner of my eye I see him pull his phone out of his pocket.

"From Mycroft. Dull…" he trails off, setting his mobile on the end table next to him. Of all the pompous things he can do, he decides to start placing his things around _my _hospital room? He never did care for keeping things neat. Just another quirk to drive a wedge between us; a small fault he watched me suffer through for his own amusement.

I finally glare at him, to tell him off for prolonging my agony like this, when something makes me freeze. _That man's eyes_…they're rimmed with red, somehow lackluster, worry lines etched into his forehead. He was…

"Worried you might lose your servant?" I spit out. This takes him by surprise and he recoils slightly. Is he feeling guilt? Remorse for all the things he once did to me?

"You're acting like a fool, John!" No, he's just angry. As if _he _has any right to be. In a newfound rage he stands up, turns toward the door. "I'm getting a patch from Lestrade- watching over you has made me somewhat forgetful to take care of myself. By the time I return, I hope you have something of a revelation as to how ridiculous your acting!"

With a huff, he storms off. Ha. I knew that man had problems with his temper. I'm not about to just sit and wait for him to come back, though. I look to where _he _had sat, and to my surprise, see something quite unexpected.

That man's phone is still at my bedside.

From the moment I see it, curiosity begins to itch, much in the same way my injuries under the bandages scratch. It's ceaseless; I know there's only one way to relieve the discomfort. With an agonizing stretch, and several muttered curses under my breath, I have _his_ phone in hand, flipping through his files within seconds. _Didn't he used to have his phone locked by password? _Obviously not, otherwise I wouldn't have access the thing I'm searching for now.

Something Moriarty said is repeating itself over and over in my head, something he said when we were at the pool.

_Sherlock only pretended to stand you to your face, Johnny. The moment you would leave the room he'd be damning your existence, texting absolute hatred of you to Mycroft. What? You thought Mycroft was his 'nemesis'? I'll tell you what, Dr. Watson, there's someone he hates more in this world than his older brother, and I can guarantee it isn't me._

I'll frantically going through his texts, anxious to finish, least that man walks in on me. Moriarty's voice is growing louder and louder and I can't stand it- it makes my wounds flare up again in remembrance and I'm still looking- he was right, that man hates me but why can't I find the text? I need to because Moriarty is yelling at me now and everything's pushing in on me- but there's a message! Before the consulting criminal's voice can bellow at me any more I click on the text, making the voice cease.

But the roaring silence that follows is far worse.

_Such a lovely man. It's a shame he has to get burned. _

There's a picture included. It's of me.

It's getting hard to breathe, I don't know how to take this sudden twist. I have little doubt this text came from Moriarty, coming from the fiery metaphor he uses so often, and his cryptic threat. Suddenly, footsteps break into the deafening silence. They're coming from down the hall, signaling that _he's _returning.

If he sees me with his mobile, it'll be more trouble than it's worth; I need to discover the truth about what I've just seen for myself. With all the strength I can muster, fighting back groans of protest from my aching muscles, I return the phone to the end table. Sooner than I expected, the door flies open. Damn- the phone's not in place yet! Still, I withdraw my hand before the man turns to look at me. I'm better off not looking like the child with his hand in the cookie jar. There's only a second of analysis when _he_ turns around before he speaks.

"What did you do?" This man peers at me with curiosity. No doubt he notices his phone isn't in the same spot as where he left it. Nonetheless, I lie with no guilt.

"Nothing."

Strangely, he accepts this answer, and laxly retrieves the phone. Finally! As if to reward my diligence over so much time, 'the genius' finally slips up!

"I take it you haven't changed your mind?"

I let my silence answer for me. This only draws forth a tired sigh.

"I do hope you think about what I've said to you. I'm sure that will add to a… _revelation."_

I continue my stubborn quietness. Having no reason to stay with a mute patient, the man finally leaves, offering only a neutral "Good day, John" as a last word.

I'm grateful he's left, yet for some reason, his absence brings back a feeling of uneasiness. Niggling doubt rises in the back of my mind; doubt against all the things Moriarty 'enlightened' me to.

Sherlock _never_ slipped up.

If anything, it could be said he did everything for a purpose.

**/-/**

**And that's that! I decided not to completely resolve the conflict, since that ended up being hokey in all my drafts, but I'm pretty satisfied with this. If you, kind reader, choose to review this, please let me know which ending is better- the ending of ****The Penalty**** without this addition, or ****The Penalty**_**plus **_**this ending.**

**And as a little side note, for those who'd like to know a little more about me: I recently saw ****Moulin Rouge****, and have determined that the owner of the Moulin Rouge, Harold Zidler, is what I would be like if I were going through a middle aged crisis while, at the same time, recovering from multiple addictions and a mental disorder.**

**Thankfully, I am going through none of the above, so for now, I'm just the entertaining Herr Fritz. **


End file.
